East of Acre Lane. Alex Wheatle
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my days,’ he whispered. ‘Dat was close.’ He felt a ridiculous urge to peer down to the concrete below, but stopped himself. ‘Fuck my days.’ He attempted to compose himself, and after a few minutes of trying to get his breathing together, he decided he would have to step back to the party and alert Coffin Head. ‘Shit! A one mile trod in my crocs.’
He made tentative steps to the lift, afraid that Nunchaks and his crew were lurking about in the shadows. Impatiently, he pressed the button, then wondered if it would be a better idea to run down the concrete steps. Before he made his mind up the lift arrived. He stepped inside, comparing the metal box to a square coffin. On reaching the ground floor, he made a quick check to see who was about before sprinting to Stockwell Tube Station. He remembered the many times he had partied and smoked good herb with his crew in the buildings adjacent to the tower block. Now the place had an altogether different atmosphere. He wondered if this was Nunchaks’ regular site for scaring the shit out of youths. Perhaps he had killed someone here. He looked behind at the great monolith and raised his sight to its highest point. ‘Fuck my days.’ He christened the building mentally, calling it Nunchaks’ killing block.
He turned right into Clapham Road, only too aware of the dangers that might come from any lane, shadow or building, but this was a hazard he had come to accept as a natural aspect of living in the ghetto. He passed a supermarket on his right and noticed ten or so trolleys keeled over on their side. Vandalism touches everything around here, he thought. He pondered on taking a short cut through a council estate but decided against it; he had seen enough council blocks on this night. On his way, he mentally cursed the boarded-up housing, the rubbish on the streets, the graffiti that covered the railway bridges that made up his habitat. Nevertheless, it was home, and he was a part of his environment just as much as the rundown church he now passed by.
Cars were parked and double parked around him as Biscuit heard the music thumping out to greet the morning. Gregory Isaacs’ ‘Soon Forward’ filtered through the snappy Brixton air, the smooth and delicate vocals riding over a slow, murderous bass-line with a one-drop drum.
He knocked on the door of the house, its windows covered by blockboard.
‘Pound fe come in, an’ if you nah have the entrance fee, I will cuss your behind for wasting my time.’
‘Paid my pound already, man. You don’t recognise me?’
‘Don’t boder try fool me. One pound fifty fe come in, especially for you. I don’t like ginall.’
‘Crook your ear, man. I entered de dance wid Nunchaks.’
The doorman thought for a moment.
‘Alright, enter, yout’.’
The stench of Mary Jane made Biscuit’s nostrils flare as he made his way to the jam-packed room he had left with Nunchaks, his sight aided only by a blue light-bulb. Girls were dressed in thin, ankle-length, pleated dresses. Most of them sported hot-combed hairstyles; black sculptured art finished off with lacquer. By this time of night, a generous share of the girls found themselves enveloped by their men, smooching away to the dub version of ‘Soon Forward’. Sweet-bwais were dressed in loose-fitting shirts that were often unbuttoned to reveal gold rope chains. The latest hairstyle was semi-afro which was shampooed and ‘blown out’, giving an appearance of carved black candyfloss. No one calling themselves a sweet-bwai would go to a party without their Farah slacks and reptile skin shoes.
As Biscuit threaded his way to the room in which he’d last seen Coffin Head, the ghetto messenger Yardman Irie grabbed hold of the Crucial Rocker sound system microphone, ready to deliver his sermon. Dressed in green army garb and topped by a black cloth beret, Yardman Irie waited for the selector, Winston, to spin the rabble-rousing instrumental ‘Johnny Dollar’.
‘Crowd ah people, de Private Yardman Irie is ’ere ’pon de scene. Dis one special request to all ghetto foot soldier.’
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me daddy cannot afford de money fe me tea
Me mudder cannot pay de electricity
De council nah fix de roof above we
De bird dem a fly in an’ shit ’pon me
Me daddy sick an’ tired of redundancy
We ’ad to sell our new black and white TV
De rat dem ah come in an’ ’ave ah party
Me look out me window an’ see ah plane nex’ to me
Me feel de flat ah sway when we get de strong breeze
We are so high we cyan’t see de trees
De flat is so damp dat me brudder start wheeze
De shitstem is bringing us down to our knees
But de politician dem nah listen to our pleas
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me don’t know why we left from de Caribbean sea.
The crowd hollered their approval of Yardman Irie’s lyrics while flicking their lighters in the air; those without clenched their fists in raised salutes. Everyone wanted an encore. ‘FORWARD YARDMAN IRIE, FORWARD!’ Yardman Irie refreshed himself with a swig of Lucozade and a toke from Winston’s spliff.
Amidst the excited throng, butted against the wall, Biscuit made out Coffin Head, riding a disgusting crub that sorely examined the wallpaper.
‘Coff! Coff!’
Coffin Head looked up and saw his spar threading his way towards him. What does he want now, he thought. Probably needs a pen so he can write down a girl’s digits.
‘Coff, need to chat to you. Urgent, man. Step outside.’
Coffin Head’s dance partner, who was wearing a flowing pleated dress that was thin enough to expose her bra, looked upon Biscuit. ‘Can’t you wait till de record done?’
‘Who’s chatting to you? Jus’ quiet your beak an’ lemme chat to my spar.’ Coffin Head had read the worry upon Biscuit’s face. ‘Dis better be important, man. I was gonna ask de girl back to my gates an’ deal wid it proper. She’s fit, man!’
‘Trus’ me brethren, dis is important. Where’s Floyd?’
‘He jus’ chip. He lef’ wid some light skin girl. Said to me he’s gonna service her if possible.’
The two friends walked out of the party and Coffin Head led the way to his Triumph Dolomite. ‘You get de herb?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, yeah, but don’t worry ’bout dat. We’re in serious shit.’
‘Whatya mean?’
‘De yard we burgled the uder day …’
‘Wha’ about it?’
‘It was de friggin’ wrong yard!’
‘Who cares a fuckin’ damn? Got some nice t’ings, innit.’
‘It’s Nunchaks. His brudder’s woman yard!’
Coffin Head looked disbelievingly out through the windscreen. ‘You’re not ramping, are you?’
‘Course I ain’t friggin’ ramping. He told me dis as he was jus’ ’bout to fling me over de balcony of some dirty tower block. I t’ought my forehead was gonna kiss de friggin’ concrete. We’ve got to get de t’ings back.’
Coffin Head shook his head in dismay ‘I always said don’t deal wid dat